


how could hell be any worse

by darkavenger



Category: Dark Avengers (Comic), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Homophobic Language, M/M, Mind Games, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 18:23:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3420926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkavenger/pseuds/darkavenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lester likes to hurt Daken, in all kinds of ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	how could hell be any worse

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to tag this with everything that seemed appropriate, but another general warning for Lester not being very nice and this not being very happy.

Daken, Lester is disappointed to find, is actually kind of a boring fuck.

Oh, sure it’s easy to miss, to start with, in the beginning, when he’s all enigmatic and elusive, and squirting you with pheromones every five minutes, keeping you so out of your head that you fail to notice it’s all smoke and mirrors.

When Daken had first started messing with him, he’d gotten Lester so hot, so horny, so utterly out of his mind that he’d spend the whole time at old Normy’s meetings fantasizing about just pinning Daken down (perhaps with an arrow through the throat) and letting him have what he so clearly wanted. But he’d resisted. Because Lester wasn’t like _that_. He didn’t get stiffies for faggy little mutts, even the ones that bled as pretty as Daken did. Except apparently, he did.

And whether it was purely chemical, or a learned reaction, some twisted pavlovian response to Daken’s proximity, the cause didn’t change the want and  eventually, he thought - fuck it. Let the little cocksucker gag on his dick if that’s what he wanted. And so they fucked. And for the first month or so it was great - best sex he’d ever had. Daken was cooperative, in bed at least, and pliable and flexible and oh so very breakable. And unlike Lester’s other toys, he could be put back together. Small matter of the dick aside, Daken was the perfect fuck.

Until he wasn’t. At some point, he just stopped trying. Oh, he didn’t try to stop Lester, he’d still roll over when Lester wanted him, still spread his legs, still get on his knees, still open his mouth and suck - but he stopped putting on the show.

It’s like fucking a corpse - and fucked up as Lester might be, necrophilia isn’t actually his thing. Which is why he mostly doesn’t hurt Daken too bad, these days. He likes the people he fucks to have a pulse, so he leaves the mutant breathing. Not that it makes much of a difference. Daken is still cold and unresponsive. In the silver light of the moon, his skin looks like alabaster and feels about as warm to the touch. Lester bends him in half and fucks him, jackhammering his hips as he slams into him, trying to elicit some response, but without success. “Look at me,” he grits out, between clenched teeth, and Daken obliges, without a murmur, but it doesn’t matter. The unwavering eyecontact does nothing but send crawls down Lester’s spine, the unblinking gaze, those dark, remote eyes and the alien intelligence that lurks within them.

Frustrated, Lester pulls out and comes, letting his seed splatter across Daken’s navel. He sees a flicker of revulsion cross Daken’s face, and feels a burst of savage satisfaction, but then the expression is gone, like a pebble hitting the surface of a lake, a brief ripple before it sinks, down into the depths and the waters still.

“Are you done?” Daken asks, without inflection.

Lester nods, and Daken slides off the bed without another word, like a shadow, insubstantial, and pads over to the ensuite. Lester lies back on the crumpled sheets and listens as the water hisses on. It’s the only noise in the three am quiet. Through the window falls the moonlight and all the lights of the city, the sleepless city, painting shadows on his walls in various shades of monochrome. He turns over, restless. His dick hangs flaccid, spent, but he’s not satisfied. There are still desires eating him up inside, hungers he needs to sate. In the closet hangs his costume, his real costume, and he thinks about putting it on and climbing out the window, about painting the town red for a night. He stays in bed.

He waits until Daken emerges from the shower. The mutant’s skin is still wet, almost luminescently pale in the dark, black hair slicked to his scalp and his tattoo an inky stain spreading downwards like rot.

“Come here,” he orders, and Daken comes, like an obedient little pet, stopping just short of the bed.

“Do you want to fuck me again?” he asks tonelessly.

Lester just grins, sitting on the edge of the bed and reaches up to curl his hand into Daken’s hair and drag him down.

Daken goes easily, dropping to his knees with practised grace, and reaches to fondle Lester’s limp cock, but Lester grabs his wrist and squeezes. “Not tonight, precious,” he whispers, tilting Daken’s chin up with his spare hand.

Daken looks at him, and Lester sees a shadow of confusion mar the perfect mask at the use of the petname, before he smooths it over. “No?” Daken asks, placid and dull. “Then what do you want?”

“Just a kiss,” Lester says, and he grins at the small frown that dents Daken’s brow.

“A kiss?” Daken echoes back to him, level and very soft. “Why, Lester, I didn’t know you felt that way.”

Lester chuckles, low and dark, then leans forward to kiss Daken on the mouth. He feels Daken flinch back, an involuntary spasm that betrays his discomfort, but Lester holds him still, one hand tangled in Daken’s hair. He bites at Daken’s lower lip, until he relents and lets them part, lets Lester slip into his mouth, the kiss wet and hot and obscene. Lester feels Daken shudder, uncontrollably, and drags the mutant closer.

After a minute, Lester pulls back, panting slightly and looks down at Daken, pleased. Daken won’t meet his eyes now, and there’s a faint tremor still trembling through his naked body. Ripples. It satisfies something in Lester the sex couldn’t. He pulls his fingers free of Daken’s hair and touches Daken face with fascination, touching the red, swollen bottom lip, running his hand along the tense line of Daken’s jaw, feeling it clench. He feels an odd impulse to laugh.

“What are you doing?” Daken says, jerkily. It looks like it’s taking him all of his self-control not to fling himself backwards, away from Lester’s touch. His back curves in on himself, shoulders hunching, a delicate question mark of confusion. His spine like a vulnerable faultline. “This is unlike you, Lester,” he continues, trying to cover his weakness with words. “Kissing?” He scoffs contemptuously, “I didn’t expect sentiment from you.”

It’s so delightful, Lester thinks.

“What’s next?” Daken asks, laughing hollowly, the sound empty of any amusement, “Lovemaking?” He finishes with a sneer, eyes glittering with malice, expecting Lester to recoil in instinctive knee-jerk no.

“Maybe,” Lester says, instead, with gentle cruelty, “would you like that?”

“What’s wrong with you?” Daken hisses, eyes narrowed and furious, and now he really does try to fling himself away, out of Lester’s grasp, but Lester still has him by the wrist and he yanks him back, grabbing Daken’s other arm and pulling him close. “You’re mad, you’re _sick_ -” Daken snarls, panting wildly, thrashing like an injured animal caught in a snare.

“No,” Lester tells him, “I’m not the sick one.” He laughs in Daken’s face, then abruptly releases him.

The mutant drops, falling backwards, flat on his ass in an undignified sprawl. “What are you talking about?” His hair’s fallen forward, shadowing half his face, and Lester leans forward to brush it out of his eyes, letting his touch linger. Another shudder builds, rattling Daken’s frame, and he jerks away violently.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Lester says, letting the smile drop from his face like a corpse. He stares coldly down at Daken. “Look at you,” his words drip poison, “scared of a little kiss? You can’t take it, can you? You’d rather I cut you apart than touch you like that.” Daken is silent, cold-eyed, tight-lipped and furious. It warms Lester’s heart, stirs the blood. He moves in for the kill, sliding off the bed and into a crouch beside Daken. “Tell me,” he whispers, leaning in close to Daken, until his breath hits skin, warm and moist and stale, “you chose me because you knew I fucking hate you, isn’t that right?” He waits, patiently, endlessly, until finally Daken nods, the gesture small and reluctant, acknowledgement dragged from him unwillingly, “Because I like to hurt you?” Daken nods again, and Lester continues, unrelenting, “Because I don’t care about you.”

“Yes,” Daken whispers, drawing his knees up to his chest. His eyes stare blankly ahead, still too cold and too empty, his expression frozen in a rictus that distorts his beauty into something ugly.

Lester looks at him, and Lester laughs, and laughs and laughs. He laughs until he has to stop, breathless and sides aching, and leans back against the bed. Daken sits as he had sat, still and silent throughout the outburst.

“You’re fucked up, you know that right?” Lester says conversationally, addressing his words upwards to the ceiling. He doesn’t look at Daken’s face, just listens until he hears the mutant exhale.

“I know.”

“I hate you,” Lester whispers, closing his eyes.

Another pause, and then a soft sigh. He hears Daken shuffle closer, until the mutant is pressed against his side, cold skin like marble, like the dead.

“I know.”


End file.
